Once upon a time, I wanted to get out of the usual writing rut and write about a protagonist who isn’t a young person being called to save the world. Instead, Lorielei Alterian presented herself. Lorielei is an elven Healer with centuries of knowledge, and she is called upon to help recover relics of the old world.

Loriel and Argaron didn’t speak for a long while after leaving the clearing. She preferred it that way.

The forest had an odd energy now—not just alive, but aware. Every rustle of leaves carried weight. Every shifting shadow felt conscious. She listened not just with her ears, but with something deeper, older. A habit she’d not needed in centuries returned with alarming speed, much to her dismay.

“You think loudly,” Argaron said at last.

Loriel shot him a look.

“If you hear my thoughts, we have a far larger problem than relics and zealots.”

A faint smirk touched his mouth. “Not your thoughts, m’lady. Your silence.”

She huffed. “I’ve not been a particularly garrulous companion.”

“No,” he said. “You’ve been composed. There’s a difference.”

That gave her pause. Adjusting her grip on the staff, the worn smoothness of the ironwood beneath her fingers grounded her.

“They recognized the amulet,” she said at last. “Not as ornament. As function.”

“A key,” Argaron said.

“Yes.” She frowned. “To what, exactly, remains the question.”

“And Father Byron knew.”

Loriel’s brows drew down and her lips pressed into a thin line.

“He suspected, at the very least. That he chose not to tell me…,” she exhaled sharply. “Well, that’ll be a conversation for another time.”

“If we return,” Argaron said.

She didn’t flinch at his words this time.

“When we return,” she corrected.

He inclined his head, accepting the amendment.

They walked on.

By the time the sun dipped low, staining the sky in amber and violet, the forest had thinned into rolling hills. A narrow road cut through the landscape, worn by trade and travel, though little traffic shared the trail.

Loriel’s steps slowed. Not dramatically, and not enough for a casual observer to remark upon. But Argaron noticed.

“Another rest,” he said.

“I’m not infirm,” she replied.

“I didn’t say you were.”

She stopped anyway.

The hilltop offered a wide view of the surrounding land. In the distance, faint against the horizon, she made out the shape of a town—dozens of low buildings clustered together, with thin threads of smoke rising into the air.

“Is that where we’re going?” she asked.

“Korwyn, yes,” he said. “We’ll reach it tomorrow.”

Loriel nodded, then lowered herself onto a flat stone. This time, she didn’t bother hiding the sigh that escaped.

Argaron moved a short distance away, scanning the horizon before settling into watchful stillness.

For a time, they only heard the wind.

Then Loriel spoke.

“You trust them,” she said, stating her thoughts.

Argaron didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I do.”

“All of them?”

A pause.

“I trust them to do what they do well,” he said. “Beyond that… well, trust is something earned.”

“Prudent,” she murmured.

“You don’t approve.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Lorielei tilted her head, considering him.

“You place yourself between danger and others,” she said. “That much is clear. But leadership isn’t merely standing in front of a blade.”

“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”

“Then tell me,” she said, “why you chose them.”

Argaron exhaled, as though weighing how much to say.

“Because each of them sees something the others don’t,” he said at last. “Durin sees the world as it is, not as people pretend it to be. Dreyah understands the relics—better than anyone I’ve met. Zaren…” He paused, a faint trace of amusement in his expression. “Zaren hears what people try to hide. And Ar’Gash—” His voice shifted, a subtle but distinct tone. “—Gash makes sure we survive long enough for all of it to matter.”

Lorielei watched him.

“And you?” she asked.

He met her gaze.

“I make the decisions.”

“Even the wrong ones.”

“Especially those.”

Silence settled between them. Loriel found, to her surprise, that she liked his answer.

“Then I suppose,” she said, “you’ll need someone to tell you when you’re about to make one.”

A faint smile returned. “I’d hoped that might be you.”

“Hope is a dangerous thing, Master Argaron.”

“So I’ve been told.”

~~~
They arrived in Korwyn after midday the following day.

Loriel felt the city before she saw it—the hum of life, the cacophony of conversation, trade, and movement. After centuries in the serenity of the House of Healing, the noise assaulted her senses like a physical force. She resisted the urge to retreat.

“This way,” Argaron said, guiding her through the narrow streets.

The city, though insignificant compared to Rithraunen, carried its own distinct energy. Less reverence, more urgency. Fewer elves, more other folk of the realm—half-elves, dwarves, elfkin, and gnomes added to the patchwork of people crowding the streets. Merchants called out from stalls, children darted between travelers, and the scent of spices, bodies, and smoke mingled in the air.

Lorielei kept her staff close, her gaze sharp.

“They’re expecting us?” she asked.

“They are.”

“And if we’re late?”

“They’ll assume something went wrong.”

She snorted. “A reasonable assumption, given our journey thus far.”

Argaron led her to a weathered building near the edge of town. Its skewed sign bore the peeling image of a tankard and a stag.

“A fitting place for first impressions,” Lorielei muttered.

“They’ll be inside.” Argaron pushed the door open.

The clamor hit her first—laughter, conversation, the clatter of mugs against wood. Then her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, and she saw them.

The half-elf was impossible to miss. Zaren lounged in a chair as though the entire room existed for his amusement, a lute rested across his lap. His bright clothing announced his presence, and his face showed delight at the attention he attracted. He plucked a lazy string as they entered, his gaze flicked up—and sharpened.

“Well,” he said, his voice carrying easily over the noise. “If it isn’t our fearless leader—and company.”

He watched Loriel, curiosity sparking.

Argaron stepped forward. “Zaren.”

The half-elf stood in a flowing motion, performing an ostentatious bow.

“And you must be the healer,” he said, smiling. “Though I confess, you’re not what I expected.”

Lorielei arched a brow. “If you expected someone younger, that’s hardly an original thought.”

“You misjudge me,” he said lightly, “I expected someone far less… formidable.”

She considered that, and gave a small nod. “A better observation.”

A low chuckle came from nearby.

Loriel turned.

The dwarf sat in the corner, somewhat obscured by shadows. He had his hood drawn low, but she sensed his attention as clearly as if he stood before her. At his feet lay a wolf—larger than she’d first thought, its amber eyes fixed on her with intelligence.

Durin Darkhand. He didn’t rise. Nor did he speak. He watched.

Lorielei inclined her head. “Master ranger.”

A pause. Then, “Healer.”

That was all. Interesting.

“Careful,” Zaren said, leaning closer to her. “If he likes you, you’ll never know. If he doesn’t… you’ll still never know.”

“I find it preferable to excessive commentary,” she replied.

“Wounded,” Zaren said, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Unlikely.”

A sudden burst of energy interrupted them.

“You’re here!”

Dreyah Magehand appeared as though summoned, her satchel brimming with scrolls and loose parchment. Her eyes locking on Loriel with intent.

“You’re the healer,” she said. “And the historian. Good. Very good. Did he tell you about the relic? Of course he didn’t, he never explains anything properly—”

“I explained enough,” Argaron cut in.

“Debatable,” Dreyah shot back. Her attention returned to Loriel. “You’ve studied pre-schism artifacts, haven’t you?” she asked. “Not just the approved texts—the real ones.”

Lorielei met her gaze. “I have studied what was necessary.”

“Excellent,” Dreyah said, as though that settled everything. “We’re going to need—”

“That can wait,” Argaron said.

Dreyah opened her mouth to argue—and stopped, looking over Lorielei’s shoulder.

Lorielei turned, following her gaze.

The last member of their group stood near the back wall, arms crossed, watching.

Ar’Gash Narghol. Gash. The half-orc pushed away from the wall and approached with measured steps. She had a silent presence, but it carried consequence—controlled, deliberate.

Her eyes flicked from Argaron to Loriel, assessing.

“This is her,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“It is,” Argaron replied.

Gash stopped a few paces away. For a moment, she said nothing.

Then, “You don’t look fragile.”

Loriel’s lips curved up. “And you don’t look foolish. A promising start.”

A flicker of approval crossed Gash’s expression.

“Good,” she said. “We won’t have time for either.”

Zaren clapped his hands once. “Well! Now that introductions are out of the way—”

“They’re not,” Lorielei said.

He blinked. “No?”

“No,” she repeated. “We have names. That’s not the same as understanding.”

A brief silence followed. Then Argaron nodded.

“She’s right,” he said. “We leave at dawn. Tonight, we learn about each other.”

Durin shifted; the wolf stirred beside him.

Dreyah pulled papers from her satchel.

Zaren grinned, settling back into his chair.

Gash watched.

Loriel remained standing a moment longer, taking them all in.

This was the company she had chosen. Or perhaps… the one chosen for her. Either way, she couldn’t turn back now.

She stepped forward and took her place among them.

“Very well,” she said. “Let us begin.”

~~~
Read the first part of Lorielei’s journey at: Lorielei: Ready or Not